


Things They Don’t Talk About

by eris_of_imladris



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Embroidery, Family Drama, Gen, Sewing, cross-stitching, surprisingly little for this family though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:41:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25923790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eris_of_imladris/pseuds/eris_of_imladris
Summary: There are things Findis doesn’t talk about with her half-brother. But not all rules are set in stone.Inspired by Lidoshka's gorgeous art for the 2020 Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang!
Relationships: Fëanor | Curufinwë & Findis
Comments: 33
Kudos: 80
Collections: Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [](https://imgur.com/BfmqYGu)

There are things Findis doesn’t talk about with her half-brother.

There are the obvious things - his dear, departed mother is the most important, followed by her mother, who always seems to do wrong in his eyes even if she does nothing more than breathe; there is the whole matter of Nolofinwë, who also cannot do anything right even though he is little more than a child; then the fact that he is a boy and could be another heir for their father, who is High King of the Noldor. She cannot rely on books, for he knows so much more about almost everything, and she cannot fall back on the easy topic of religion, as the very mention of the Valar can take away any happiness he shows.

Most of the time, it’s simple - she speaks only a little, and although he has problems with her mother and brother, and sometimes even Irimë if she runs up behind him and pulls on the ribbon tying back his hair - and they can have brief but polite interactions. It’s not quite the same as she has with her other siblings - her mother’s children - but she supposes it’s only right for someone so skilled in everything he touches to not have time for half-siblings.

He’s never been cruel to her, or said anything against her. She could read things into the way he sometimes speaks about her mother, but there is enough conflict in their home without inventing new things. Which is why she holds in the pain of not being good enough at her needlework, even the simplest form that her tutor has started to show her, because her struggles would only make her seem insignificant next to Fëanáro.

She doesn’t realize, after yet another failure to reproduce something as simple as the bright red tomato sitting on her tutor’s table today, that she is not alone until she collides with another person, knocking them to the ground as she falls.

Findis is already scolding herself internally as she examines the dust on her sleeves, She’s not little like Irimë, she shouldn’t be running through the halls of her home with no dignity, and she shouldn’t let something like this get at her the way it does. Bu/t it does, when the person looking back at her is Fëanaro.

Fëanáro the perfect, she thinks as he picks up the cloth she dropped on the ground. She would bet anything that he never had any trouble with anything. No one ever looked at him like her tutor looked at her, like she was missing something essential.

His eyes narrow as he looks at her pathetic attempt to create a tomato that looks far more like a lopsided pool of blood. His eyes find hers, and she can’t help but blurt out, “I’m sorry.”

Her words stun him out of his gaping down at her horrid creation. “What are you sorry for?” Findis looks down at her sorry excuse for needlework as he holds it up. “There is no fault in being a beginner.”

“I should be more than a beginner by now,” she mumbles.

“Creativity cannot be rushed,” he says with utmost seriousness. She is half-expecting a lecture about craft from the one person who she knows is the best at everything, even young as he is.

“I have to rush this,” she admits. Embarrassment colors her cheeks.

“Why?”

She cannot avoid the truth, and so she admits, “I’m hoping to make something special for Ammë’s begetting day,” hoping he will not erupt at her for the mere mention of having a mother. Her mother. It takes her several long moments to remember that it was his mother who was the famous embroideress, so she is not only flaunting that she has a mother, she is also stealing what made his mother special.

Findis prepares for an explosion, but all she feels is a hand in hers, pulling her up even before she remembers how to stand. Fëanáro looks at her curiously, brow furrowed in thought, before he finally says, “Follow me.”

He takes her to a gazebo near the queen’s garden, well-lit, and her mistakes are even clearer in the brighter light. “Show me what you did,” he says, and she is acutely aware of his eyes on her as she rummages through her sewing basket.

The needle feels tiny in her hands, the simple act of threading it taking far too long. She can only imagine what he’s thinking as she fails to thread it for what feels like an eternity, and she is so relieved when she finally threads it that she nearly forgets that she has to actually embroider now. Her thread is too loose, then too tight, and there is an awkward space between the stitches and she nearly cries.

She feels a warm hand on hers, and then words that - surprisingly - aren’t criticizing her. “Did your tutor teach you to begin like this?”

She can’t find words and nods, but his words come all too easily. “This is far too advanced to begin with. You need to start with the cloth with holes, and start with the stitches that cross one another. You need the building blocks before you can work your way to the top,” he says. He reaches over towards her basket, then hesitates. “May I?”

“Yes, of course,” she says as he starts to pull out the supplies. He takes out so many colors of thread, colors she isn’t worthy of since she can’t make any of them beautiful, but he puts them all aside in a pile until he comes to her pieces of cloth. She has no idea what he means about cloth with holes, but when he unfolds and folds again everything that he finds, he turns to her with an almost apologetic look.

“I cannot understand why you would begin like this,” he says, and she nearly apologizes. “But I can help. I know this is not my primary craft, but I can help you find your footing. First, we will need to go to the market.”

He stands up quickly, starts to walk away, then turns when he realizes she is not following. She is still awash in curiosity, and since she has already said too much, she dares to ask him a question as she rises, leaving her first attempt behind. “Why are you helping me?”

He pauses and waits for her to get closer, and stays silent as they find their way to the path out of the palace. “You are trying to better your craft,” he eventually says. “I try to help in situations like this.”

He doesn’t mention the fact that this is for her mother’s begetting day, and they only exchange scant words before emerging out into Tirion proper.

He guides her through the market, his hand warm on hers, past the sounds of people working and excited chatter that she never paid too close attention to before. There are times when he stops to speak to people she doesn’t know, a young man watching his father whittle who quickly stops to offer a smile, another who puts his hand on Fëanáro’s shoulder and questions him about a lump of metal.

“This way,” he says, leading her to a stall with so many colors of thread and cloth that she nearly gets too distracted to notice the way some of the cloths have holes of various sizes. He selects one with larger holes, then one with smaller holes, and pays for both before she can think to offer her own money. 

They are mostly silent on the walk back, which is thankfully short, but Fëanáro stops abruptly when they approach the doors. “What are you trying to create?”

Findis has given the matter a great deal of thought, and she decided that if she was going to make something for her mother, she would make a picture of the garden that she loved so much. “Flowers,” Findis says, hoping she sounds confident. “I would like to pick some that she likes, and make those for her to hang when she is unable to spend time in the garden. Would that be a good gift?” she asks, nearly clapping her hand over her own mouth.

She thinks of everything she shouldn’t say that her words just conveyed. She is spending her mother’s begetting day with her, instead of pounding metal while wearing the sharpest black. She knows enough of her mother to know her preferences, when Fëanáro knows only his mother’s name. And most of all, it gets at the key difference between them: she has a mother, while talented, brilliant Fëanáro is the only person in the world who does not.

“I see her by the red ones sometimes,” Fëanáro says eventually, sure-footed in the garden as if he had been there many times. Findis follows him, eyeing the patch he carefully avoids. Those flowers are pale white, glistening with dew. Beautiful, but cold. Not like the red ones he leads her to, bright and cheerful. He retrieves her sewing basket as she looks at the paler blossoms, wondering what someone like Fëanáro would see in them.

“The red threads will be easier for us to work with,” he says, taking out a piece of the newly purchased cloth. “With darker colors, it is easier to see the shades. See how this part here obscures the petal beneath it from this angle? This is where you block in the darker thread, and it lends a shadow to the flower you are making.”

It’s true, Findis notices as she watches his deft fingers. They are not small and nimble like hers, and they are covered in calluses, but somehow he still moves them as if they were elegant like their father’s. He takes only a second to moisten the thread with his lips, then threads the needle in a smooth movement and makes a diagonal stitch.

“This is the first piece,” he says, and then slides the needle one hole to the right, in where the third corner would be if he was making a triangle. He comes up there from behind, and crosses over the first stitch. It is larger than what her tutor showed her, but far less lopsided than her own attempts.

“I thought the stitches have to be small,” she says, peering down at the bright X on the pale fabric.

The corners of Fëanáro’s mouth tilt up ever so slightly. “I found it helpful to see it like this when I was learning,” he says.

“Who taught you?” she asks, doubting herself suddenly. What if he learned from her same tutor, and her lack of talent was exactly as it appeared to be?

Fëanáro pauses briefly, the needle sticking halfway through the fabric. “I taught myself,” he admits in a strange tone Findis has never heard from him before. It sounds like the way she feels in her lessons, when she feels utterly lost. It’s not a voice she ever expected to come from someone so talented whose praise she hears as constant as breath from her father.

“You didn’t have a tutor?” she asks, even though she knows he must have had the best. He is the first son, after all.

“It was years ago,” Fëanáro continues as if she had not spoken, his eyes downcast. “I had torn a shirt, and… it had occurred to me that I might need to learn a skill to support myself. My mind was on my mother, and so I sought to copy her craft.”

Findis nearly gasps. Of course his mother would inspire him to do this, and of course he would accept instruction from no one else, his orphan’s pride would let no one tell him what should have been taught to him at the knee of the mother he never knew - 

“I tried to repair it with pale yellow thread on white, and the seam turned out very misshapen. I’d tried to copy my mother’s later works, when I should have been seeking her earlier works, the ones where she experimented with this method.”

He quiets, and Findis lets out a breath she doesn’t realize she has been holding. “What did she make?” Findis asks, hesitant but curious to explore forbidden territory.

“Everything,” he replies, plucking the needle out of the fabric and twirling it between his fingers. “The world as she saw it. Strange animals the likes of which I have never seen, even on my farthest expeditions; landscapes I can hardly imagine; the people she loved most depicted in the kindest colors and so radiant that they could step off the cloth and I would not be surprised.” He looks over at Findis, but instead of anger, there is kindness in his eyes. “Flowers the likes of which grew in Cuiviénen, that she brought over with her own hands.” His eyes dart to the white flowers, then back to the large X he stitched.

“She started telling her stories through these smaller stitches, reining them in with the other stitch. I saw, in those works, that there had to be a balance, but even then, I could not copy her directly. I had to make my stitches larger until I could get them even, and then, I could start going smaller.”

The technique he describes is far from what her tutor mentioned, far from the way her tutor described her mother picking up the skill quickly and exactly as it was intended. But the new cloth Fëanáro offers her has little indentations, and he picks up a similar piece and makes another large stitch.

She copies him as best she can, and he shows her how tight to pull the thread (taut, but not quite enough for it to snap), how he selected this red, and before she can even be surprised, he kneels in the dirt to hold up the thread and makes a quick change.

“Trust your eyes,” he tells her, and it seems so strange to think of trust around Fëanáro of all people, but he has trusted her with a tale he likely did not ever mean to share with her, and she has trusted him with her needlework. Her mother’s begetting day gift is in his hands, and even though it is for her mother, of all people, he approaches her shortly before the Mingling, running his fingers over her large stitches.

“Tomorrow, we will meet at the first Mingling to observe the dew,” he says, and then walks away as if he had not introduced her to a half-brother she never knew she had.


	2. Chapter 2

Findis arrives early, finding the light of Telperion still shining on the flowers. She never noticed how different things looked under this light, lending the garden an ethereal feel. It helps her understand why her mother sits out so many nights, even after Irimë has fallen asleep and she is surely exhausted as well. There is a certain magic she never noticed before, so caught up in her duties.

The red flowers Fëanáro showed her are easy enough to find, but as the minutes drag by without her half-brother appearing, she begins to wander. There is a patch of tall purple flowers she’s always liked, since they look like they’re dancing when they sway in the breeze, and some small blue ones that she nearly steps on as they blend almost entirely into the ground. Her feet stray from the paths as she explores, feeling lighter than she did all day. Out here, she can begin to feel peace from the worries of her day.

Her eyes are drawn to some of the flowers she never cared for before, a white patch that gleamed under Telperion’s light. Fëanáro had avoided these, she knows, but she wonders why when she approaches. They look so delicate and strong at once, the petals bearing an almost-silvery edge with pure ivory in the center. The stems were thicker than she would have expected, hardier than such a blossom might have, but somehow it works, supporting the flimsy petals with near-perfect straightness.

“She planted these herself,” comes a voice from behind Findis, and she nearly steps on one of the silvery flowers when she comes face to face with Fëanáro. There is a strange look on his face as he bends down, leaving the basket of supplies on the path.

“Who did?” Findis asks, regretting her words almost immediately. There was only one her, only one she who could not be named.

“My mother,” he says. “Father told me these were the center of the garden, once. It has expanded now.”

Findis is shocked into silence by the way he doesn’t immediately blame her mother for the garden’s expansion, or the Valar for letting his mother die or their father remarry. It seems almost as if he is speaking with honesty, not the type covered in barbs he prefers to wield around her family, but what he is actually feeling.

“They’re beautiful,” Findis says, hoping he won’t find her insipid or unworthy to even comment.

“Father told me she nurtured the bulbs on the way here,” Fëanáro continues, almost as if he hadn’t heard Findis speak. “She wanted to bring something of the old world so it would not be forgotten. He has told me many times of how she would sit here with her own embroidery in hand.”

Findis wonders, suddenly, why Fëanáro is even speaking to her about this instead of steering her away. He has the right to, after all, and has asserted the right many times before. But instead, he has brought her here, and even though she remembers the way he steered her towards the brighter flowers, she finds that she is not angry. Even if he is not ready to share a representation of these flowers with her mother yet, he is at least sharing memories, the barest things he has, the things she never thought could be spoken.

“I can understand why,” Findis dares to say. “Out here, things seem different.”

Fëanáro looks over at her with a small smile. “Father said she always felt confined in the palace walls. Perhaps that is why she sought to create an entirely different place, even if she was using her hands to weave her memories into life.”

The idea resonates with Findis, and she wonders if, long after she has finished her mother’s begetting day gift, she will remember the first conversation of Míriel without fury and division.

She turns back to the red flowers, noting that they, too, look different than they did only a scant few hours ago, and Fëanáro shifts, picking up the basket and moving hurriedly to sit beside them. She wonders how uncomfortable he must have been to offer even these small details, something anyone could have told her, and reaches for the cloth.

The white expanse looks even wider now that she is expected to fill it with something, and Findis sits quietly as Fëanáro digs through the basket, picking out a few shades of red and laying them out on the grass. “Which do you see?” he asks, pointing to a particular flower.

Findis knows how this part of the process works. She is going to give the wrong answer, and with any luck, Fëanáro will be patient in explaining her faults. It takes her a long time to make her choice, and she wonders if he will chide her, but she tries to observe the flower as best as she can. And when she reaches out for a shade, he doesn’t comment, only picks up the one next to it. She can feel her cheeks heating as she reaches out for the thread in his hand, and he turns to her, surprised.

“I thought you had selected yours already,” Fëanáro says.

“It’s wrong,” she mumbles.

“Why is it wrong?”

“Because,” is all she can say, looking at his hand until he understands.

“Just because we are working together does not need to mean we do exactly the same thing,” Fëanáro says, taking out a small knife and deftly cutting the thread before holding it out to her.

“I don’t have to copy exactly what you do?” Findis asks.

“Master Mahtan told me that is the mark of an inferior teacher,” Fëanáro says. “What point is there to copying what is already there?”

“How do you learn, then?”

“By trying to emulate, one inevitably changes part of the process,” he says, reaching out towards her basket. “Like how you chose the brighter red, and I the duller. Even if our final pieces appear similar, you will learn to use your own methods to pick colors, to make the sizes of your stitches. You will learn to trust yourself.”

It occurred to Findis, in that moment, how little she usually trusted herself. She had taken it for granted that Fëanáro would tell her what to do like her tutor did, and that his superior skill would get through to her inferior mind (for surely it was inferior to his, if everyone around her was to be believed that he had the brightest mind in all of Tirion). She had not thought that she would have to think much for herself, but there was a thrill to skimming her fingers over the colors he’d bought, so many just for her, and selecting one that matched what only she saw.

“Start with the one diagonal stitch. Imagine the part of the flower you are trying to make,” Fëanáro says, and she focuses on one of the petals that arches up. The curve reminds her of the tomato she tried to emulate with her tutor, but this time she tries to push aside her fear of something difficult. She is with Fëanáro, after all. If she makes mistakes, he won’t hesitate to tell her. And she is beginning to think he also won’t hesitate to help her fix them.

She tries to mimic the motion of his hands from before, stiff at first, trying to make sure her stitch is the right size, almost expecting her tutor to pop up behind her and exclaim that she’s done everything wrong. But instead, she makes her first stitch, then the one to cross it, and when she looks up, Fëanáro is stitching quietly beside her.

Findis peers over at his work, noting that his stitches are smaller than the one she made, and there are more of them, his needle deft. She watches the movement of his fingers and wonders if she will ever be able to stitch as quickly and feel as confident in her work.

His words come back to her when he lifts his head and offers her a small smile. She finds that, in that moment, she doesn’t need the praise of those who seek to tell her she does everything perfectly to appease her family, or those who find every fault in what should be a perfect princess of the Noldor. Instead, she simply needs to find a place for the next stitch, where the flower’s petal curls towards the light.

Maybe it’s the light that she’s noticed, she wonders as she starts to find a rhythm. Maybe it’s her Vanya mother coming out in her, as everyone - including Fëanáro - has commented before. She has her mother’s hair, her mother’s eyes. She may also have her love of light, instilled in her from a young age. But there are also parts of Findis that are just her, and if that is true then there are parts of Fëanáro that are more than his mother, and perhaps it is these parts that can be friends.

By the time her fingers have rounded the edge - sloppy, perhaps, but her work, all hers - the light of Laurelin lends a new element, and suddenly the color she has chosen is wrong. She looks over at Fëanáro, who is laying a foundation of grass for his own creation, and watches as he looks up at the Mingling, now fully in bloom, and frowns slightly at the needle in his hand.

But instead of flying into a rage, as Findis expects, he simply turns back to the basket, pushing aside several colors to find a lighter green that is almost yellow. A few stitches of that color intermingled with the darker green and created patches of light, almost as if the Trees shone on his cloth.

“Find the angles,” he says calmly. “And it is easier to pick a time for something like this.”

Findis looks down at her flower, slightly misshapen but she can tell this time that it’s supposed to be a flower, even more so when she chooses a slightly lighter red with highlights of orange and adds a few stitches around the edges on one side. Fëanáro has added his lighter stitches on both sides of his flower, but she likes hers this way, and he makes no comment when he rises at the call of a bell.

“I need to go,” he says, looking almost unsure. It is a strange face on him, almost reminiscent of the way Nolo scrunches up his little face when he is worried about something. It is a thought she doesn’t have to voice, this feeling like a sister instead of a barrier to everything he wishes for.

She tucks her own creation deep inside the basket when she returns to her tutor, and his words start to fade as she watches the light of Laurelin grow brighter through her window, lighting the flowers outside in an entirely new way. What is inside matters less, and she starts to feel a small spark of what Fëanáro spoke about, the way he must feel when he is in the forge covered to his elbows in soot, holding aloft his newest creation. All she can think of is her little red flower, her very own, that will be easier with Fëanáro’s silent company than the endless chattering and testing before her now.


	3. Chapter 3

They take to an easy routine. Fëanáro finds her on the same bench most days when she has breaks in her lessons, poring over the contents of her sewing basket to find just the right color of thread. He sits beside her, and as her skills grow, she finds herself able to talk while working. Although it is easy to stay with the topic of Findis’ stitches that are getting increasingly small and even with his support, they branch out. He tells her of the other apprentices who he works with, the successes and failures of his latest ideas. She never knew he could fail, and somehow it seems to help him when she offers him a word of encouragement.

His words bolster her as her stitches grow even, then smaller. He guides her hand, sometimes with his hand on hers, other times with words, other times by watching the flowers with her and observing the minute changes in light, matching the colors of her sewing basket to what they can see.

Her mother’s begetting day has nearly arrived when she realizes Fëanáro may not even be there to see the final version of the gift. He is not on the bench the day before, and she signs her name on the bottom and wonders if this is the extent of his generosity. She has asked a great deal of him, after all, and she is now steady enough in her stitching that she can make do mostly alone. Even if her work is not what he would create, it is still beautiful to her eyes, and will hopefully be beautiful to her mother.

As she starts to pack up her basket, Fëanáro appears. “There is one last thing you need,” he says, and he beckons her to the marketplace once again. She is surprised when he takes a left at the woodcutter she observed the first time they went.

“Findis, this is Tano,” Fëanáro says, and Findis is surprised that she recognizes the name from some of his stories. She thinks back to what she remembers Fëanáro telling her, but soon all she can think of is the fact that she has been talking with her half-brother enough to know the name of one of his friends.

He holds up a wooden frame, light in color to not detract from the flowers, and affixes her art to it while chattering away about one of their newest exercises at Mahtan’s forge. Fëanáro speaks to Tano like he was her, she realizes as Tano takes a pair of scissors to the fabric, trimming the excess edges. Fëanáro talks to her like he talks to Tano. He is a friend, and she realizes that she must be as well, even if in a completely different way.

Findis doesn’t quite know what to say beyond thanking Tano for his work, and nodding her head to his father as he bows her out of the shop. The noise of the marketplace parts for her as all she can think of is that she has achieved the impossible in more ways than one - she has created a representation of one of her mother’s favorite flowers that actually looks like a flower, and a child of Indis learned this skill from the child of Míriel with kindness.


	4. Chapter 4

Findis is more excited than nervous the morning of her mother’s begetting day, but her heart flutters all the same. She holds the cloth behind her back, shy next to Nolofinwë’s eagerness to show off the gift he made. The gift from Irimë is little, just like she is, and then it is Findis’ turn, and she suddenly becomes nervous as both of her parents turn to her.

She can barely feel her feet as she walks closer, holding out the wooden frame from Fëanáro’s friend, filled with her creation.

“Oh my,” her mother exclaims, and for a moment Findis fears she is merely humoring her, but then she sees the way her mother runs her delicate finger over the needlework, not finding any bumps. Findis dares to smile.

“This is gorgeous,” her mother says with a large smile, beaming down at her as if she was the talented one in the family. Her eyes dart over to Fëanáro, who sits stiffly as Irimë plays with his plaited hair. “And to think that until so recently, you said you were struggling so much!”

“Thank you,” Findis says, as if she was the one who just received a gift, and feels a spark of pride when her father leans over.

The High King himself pores over her work, his eyes following the stems to the dewdrops atop the petals. “I have not seen needlework like this in quite some time,” he says. Findis wonders if he is thinking of another woman who once sat by his side, but he does not look over to Fëanáro as he usually does when he speaks of talent in their family. “The words are so even, and the flowers quite lifelike - how did you learn so quickly?”

Findis glances over to Fëanáro again. He watches their exchange with interest, but he makes no move to speak. Now is the time he would butt in, redirect the attention to himself. Findis commits her parents’ words to memory, certain that once they find out where she learned the cross stitch, she will fade into obscurity once again.

But moments go by, and Fëanáro doesn’t speak. Irimë chatters away as she weaves her small fingers through the strands of his hair. He looks over at Findis and nods ever so slightly.

He’s not taking this praise. He’s leaving it for her.

He leaves the praise for her when it might weaken his position, as she has heard him mutter about when he thinks he’s alone. He is leaving behind an opportunity to prove once again that he’s better than her, more talented, more suitable to be king than anyone. He doesn’t press the issue. She is sure he will again one day, but for now, he holds his tongue as her parents begin to speak of the finer details, how small her stitches are, how even, how the colors match the lighting of the garden perfectly.

It might be small, perhaps even smaller than the first things Fëanáro ever did, but the praise warms her as if she sat under Laurelin’s light, soaking it up and meeting her parents’ faces with a huge smile.


	5. Chapter 5

There are things Findis doesn’t talk about with her older brother.

She doesn’t know how his everyday life goes now that he’s crafting for more and more important people - maybe even Valar, if the rumors are true. She doesn’t know for sure if he has romantic intentions towards the redheaded girl she’s seen him with a few times, but the familiar smile on his face gives her at least an idea. The times he is home grow fewer, but when he comes home, no matter what else is going on with the rest of her family, he has a smile for her and a sympathetic eye for her work.

After her mother’s begetting day, she takes a keener interest in the garden, in the shapes of flowers she once only noted for being pretty. She studies their lines, memorizes their angles, and holds her fabric up to them time and time again while muttering under her breath at a variety of nearly-white threads. The outline is in a Telerin thread, pearlescent and expensive, and when she holds it up to his mother’s flowers she brought from Cuiviénen with her own hands, it looks alive.

There may be things he doesn’t talk about with others, but she knows her brother, and she knows this is part of his home too. She sends it to him when he moves closer to Mahtan for more reasons than one, and knows that even though there are things they still don’t talk about, he will understand.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Lidoshka for this amazing bonus art of Fëanor taking Findis to the marketplace!
> 
> [](https://imgur.com/NgXfUyT)


End file.
